Homecoming
by Nerdychick501
Summary: It's three in the morning when John get's the text, and it's been three years. Three years, and now he's back. Haven't decided if I will yet, but if I do continue the rating may go up. Nothing above T. Reviews appreciated!


**Hello everyone! I'm not going to bore you with a super long AN, but I just wanted to mention that I haven't tried a Sherlock fic yet, and apologize if anyone is OOC. I'm working on that. Please review and stuff if you like it, I haven't decided whether or not to continue or leave it be. That, and reviews are always nice. Enjoy!**

Homecoming

John's phone vibrated, letting him know he had a text message. At three in the morning. Groggily, John sighed and rubbed his rubbed his eyes. Who on earth would do that? The only person that out of touch and inconsiderate was... no. He would not think about him. Not right now. His phone went off again, insisting. Grumbling profusely, John reached over and flipped it open. Then he saw the name on the screen on the screen and froze. It was a cruel joke, a terrible, mean, awful joke. He had a message from Sherlock.

'Hello John, I'm alive and coming home. Don't wait up. SH'

Impossible. It couldn't be. He watched him fall, saw him on the sidewalk covered in all that... He's dead. Gone. This is someone's idea of fun, torturing him, giving him hope that he tried and failed to do away with. He stared at the message. The clock ticked away, and still he stared. Eventually two hours had past, and he had yet to look away from the tiny screen. He stared until he heard the creak of the apartment door. Against his will, a tiny bit more hope crept in. Slowly he pushed himself up on the bed. Deftly he grabbed his gun off his bedside table as he crept toward the door. He slunk down the stairs like a cat, as silent as a mouse. The door at the bottom of the stairs was still closed, and he realized he couldn't do stealth beyond here. Time to work surprise. With an almighty yell, he kicked the door off its hinges and barged into the room to catch the perp.

Sherlock didn't even blink. Didn't flinch, didn't spare him so much as a second glance. He just kept on making tea.

"Hullo John, I didn't realize you were up. Tea?"

John hadn't lowered the gun. He was standing stock-still, staring right down the barrel at his dead- no apparently _not _dead- friend. Suddenly, he felt that he needed to sit down. Collapsing into his armchair, he continued to stare, as if blinking would make Sherlock disappear again, as if he was an illusion, a weird... wonderful... illusion. I figment of his distressed, twisted imagination.

Sherlock was starting to worry. John had yet to speak, yet to move really, but he shrugged it off. He couldn't be faulted, he thought, he had given a warning. The tea finished steeping and he poured John a cup. No sugar he remembered, and then frowned. Why'd he remember that? That knowledge had been of no use to him for 3 years, it should have been deleted. He shook himself and turned back to John.

"Tea." He said simply, holding out the saucer. This break in the stoic silence seemed to snap John out the trance he was in, and he abruptly got up. He just looked at Sherlock for a moment as he stood before him, and then his fist collided with Sherlock's jaw and the china shattered as it hit the floor.

"YOU IMBICLE!" John practically screamed at Sherlock as he stumbled back into the table, "YOU COMPLETELY INSENSITIVE JERK!"

He lurched forward, and Sherlock flinched, expecting another fist that he certainly deserved. He was then shocked when John pulled him into a rough hug, burying his face in Sherlock's scarf.

"Jerk…" he mumbled half heartedly, his anger quickly spent, replaced by disbelief and awe. He clung to Sherlock, proving to himself that he was real. He listened to the sound of his heart and felt the movement of his chest as he inhaled, the steady signs of life. After a while he pulled himself together and backed away sheepishly, stepping carefully over the puddle of tea that had pooled on the floor.

"How'd you do it?" he sighed, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock cleared his throat, pulling himself together as well. He hadn't realized how much he had missed John. "Short answer? I landed on top of a truck." He took the moment while John was contemplating this to look him over. He was almost exactly as he remembered, with the exception of the new slippers on his feet. He looked very awake for 5:00 AM, but then again he was a military man and his best friend had just come back from the dead. He was favoring one leg, which signaled that his limp was back, and he had deep bags under his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping. Come to think of it, he looked thinner too, meaning he probably hadn't been eating properly. Sherlock's eyebrows knitted in worry.

"John…" he started "have you been eating?" John opened his mouth to spout the standard lie that had turned automatic, before realizing who he was talking to.

"I don't really have an appetite any more. I actually had more of one when there were thumbs in the fridge." John sighed, passing a hand over his tired eyes.

"You're no me John." Sherlock smiled a little, "normal humans need sustenance."

John let out a humorless laugh. "I turned into you. People had to force me to eat." It wasn't meant to be funny, and it wasn't. Both of them knew that.

"John… that's not healthy." Sherlock murmured.

Tears suddenly filled John's eyes. "What do you care? You left me. You died and left me alone Sherlock. Do you know what that does to person? Watching the person they… their best friend jump off a ROOF?!" His voice escalated steadily, climaxing as he yelled the last part at Sherlock.

"I couldn't take you!" Sherlock burst, "You would have gotten… in the way." He trailed off awkwardly.

"In the way." John growled dangerously, his anger rekindling at the ridiculous excuse, "you could have at least told me you were _alive_. Three years Sherlock. Fine, you didn't want me along, didn't want me to screw up whatever you were doing, but you let me think you dead for _three years._"

Sherlock swallowed nervously. "I know," he started, pausing to gather his thought, "But what I mean by in the way I mean… killed. You would have been killed if you knew I was alive. I couldn't… I wouldn't be able to…" he didn't finish his sentence.

John stared at him for a moment, trying to be angry with the confused looking man standing, slumped, in front of him.

"Three years…" he whispered, a tear finally escaping and running down his cheek, "three years Sherlock Holmes, _and I still love you."_


End file.
